A Lot of White Christmases
by The Convergence
Summary: For Grace: A journey through the various different white Christmases shared by Sherlock Holmes and his older brother.


**For:** Grace  
 **Penname:** Gracie Holmes  
 **Character:** Sherlock  
 **Other Characters Used:** Mycroft, mentions of their parents and Eurus  
 **Rating:** K+  
 **Genre(s):** Family  
 **Message to your person:** Tis the season to be Gracie, fa-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la! A very merry Christmas to you!

* * *

 **A Lot of White Christmases**  
 _A journey through the various different white Christmases shared by Sherlock Holmes and his older brother._

* * *

Mycroft was seven, almost eight. Sherlock was almost a year old.

This Christmas brought heavy amounts of snow, effectively covering every inch of the ground around them. Young Sherlock had a view of the window from his chair, and he watched as the flakes came down with fascination. How fitting it was that his first Christmas was a white Christmas.

Mycroft, at first, paid no heed to the snow. Despite still being a child, he was already growing uninterested with such trivial things. Maybe it frustrated his parents, who were now doting on his newborn brother, but he didn't care.

Sherlock, however, did care about the snow, and so he watched it fall, for that was all he could do. He couldn't ask about it, he couldn't point, he couldn't do anything to share his excitement with his older brother, who eventually noticed Sherlock's avid attention.

"It's called snow," Mycroft answered before he sat down next to Sherlock as their parents walked in.

* * *

Mycroft was ten. Sherlock was three.

Their parents were in the other room with Eurus, so the two boys were waiting for them inside of the living room. Despite growing to be more like Mycroft, Sherlock was watching the snow fall with curiosity. How could something so cold and fragile be so beautiful, he wondered silently. He had been taken out to play in the snow during past winters, so he knew of how it would melt at his touch, but it still seemed so complex. Sherlock wanted to know more.

"Why does snow melt when the sun comes out?" he asked Mycroft, pulling his brother's attention onto him.

"Because it is little more than frozen water that sticks to the ground when it is cold. The sun is what warms the Earth, so when it shines down, the ground and the temperature outside becomes too warm for snow."

As if on cue, a bright yellow disk peeked out of the clouds, and its light reflected onto the snow.

* * *

Mycroft was fourteen. Sherlock was seven.

Eurus was gone. Their parents were distressed with it being the first Christmas without their little girl. Sherlock was already starting to forget his younger sister entirely. Mycroft was not.

It was only a light flurry outside, hardly a true white Christmas, but it was still snow coming down, and Sherlock was still watching.

Surprisingly, his interest of snow had not waned. Sure, Sherlock questioned why he hadn't lost interest like Mycroft did over the years, but all of that would be forgotten when the snow fell. His unwrapped Christmas presents lay forgotten around his feet minus a blue scarf, which was now being weaved between his fingers.

Eventually, Sherlock turned to his brother, who was drawing out some plans in a new notebook and not paying attention. "Do you want to come outside with me?" he asked innocently. There was no more Redbeard to play with now, only Mycroft.

Mycroft turned to his younger brother, ready to say something about there being no point in going out to play in the snow and that Sherlock should just leave him alone. However, the words died on his lips upon seeing the hope in Sherlock's eyes.

"Just for a little bit."

Sherlock's smile was worth it.

* * *

Mycroft was twenty-two. Sherlock was fifteen.

It was just Sherlock and his parents at the house now, but Mycroft was visiting for the holidays. He had just graduated from the university with top marks and was now looking for a position in the British government. Their parents were so proud of him, and Sherlock was too (but he was loathe to admit it).

Sherlock didn't go out into the snow anymore, but he still watched it whenever it came down. Sometimes, when Mycroft thought that Shelock wasn't looking, he would look too.

Sherlock was smarter and more observant than his brother gave him credit for and caught some of these instances. However, he did not say anything because he knew that Mycroft would stop.

* * *

Mycroft was twenty-eight. Sherlock was twenty-one.

Sherlock was also going to the university, but unlike his brother, he was not interested in a government position. He would rather solve crimes using his high intelligence, namely strange crimes, and, more specifically, murder. By now, he has accepted his sociopathic nature, but there was one part of Sherlock that was not affected by this: snow.

He debated going outside to attempt to calculate the speed at which a snowflake falls, but before Sherlock could so much as pick up his gloves, Mycroft arrived at the Holmes' residence. He was dressed in a brand-new suit. Sherlock dressed casually.

Sherlock watched as his elder brother moved to sit in a chair opposite to him, keeping his distance. Good.

* * *

Mycroft was thirty-seven. Sherlock was twenty-eight.

This Christmas was held in secret given recent circumstances. Actually, there were no reasons for it other than Sherlock was actually alive, even if it meant that he was only in hiding. Now, Sherlock hadn't wanted to come over to spend Christmas with his parents and Mycroft, but they insisted... Mycroft insisted.

Sherlock sat impatiently inside of the living room while his parents prepared food for the four Holmeses. He twiddled his thumbs restlessly and was about to stand up and leave when the door opened.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock strangely, and Sherlock returned the look. Why is he looking at me like that? What does he think that I did this time even though I was careful?

Finally, Mycroft said, "It's snowing outside."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, for once having not noticed the snow. "What do you mean by that?"

Mycroft pointed towards the window. "Look outside."

And Sherlock did. The white flakes were, as Mycroft said, floating down to the ground. They danced in the light breeze, and suddenly, Sherlock was a child again.


End file.
